Detox
by Simon920
Summary: Dick tries to help Roy.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Detox

Author: Simon

Characters: Roy/Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Just what it says in the title

Warnings: language

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

Please note: Yes, I know this isn't canon. It's fanon. In the actual comics, Roy was taken through detox by Dinah and (I believe) Hal Jordon. As always, medical advice is courtesy of Gabe. Okay, that all said, let's get on with it.

**Detox**

It wasn't anything anyone noticed at first, or even at second, when you came down to it. And it wasn't that they didn't care. It was just that they were all busy in their own lives; they weren't always around since they all lived here and there and—maybe this was the main reason, they were so young when it happened.

In fact the signs were there if they'd looked. God knows it wasn't like any of them were so innocent about this sort of thing. They simply never put the hints and symptoms together, never added up two and two to make four.

In fact, they did care; that's important. They cared very much and even if they had noticed, it was so out of the realm of possibilities that they dismissed the things which they did see.

None of this is an excuse, of course, it's just the truth.

Finally someone did figure it out, though, and that's the story.

Dick Grayson was sitting cross-legged on his bed in Titans Tower. His new laptop was opened, balanced on his knees and he was almost half way through that frigging English essay he was supposed to turn in yesterday. Bruce would kill him if the reduced late grade pulled his GPA down to a mere 3.9 and he knew it. It would mean no Robin, no flying, no Titans, no nothing that even resembled fun. He _had_ to get this thing done and it _had_ to be good.

Dammit.

And there was that banging coming through the walls again. "Roy—shut up."

It continued; he banged on the wall with his fist. "Roy, knock it off."

No change and the banging got louder for a few minutes and then, thank God, stopped—what the hell was that, anyway? Annoyed, he got up and walked next door, knocking on the door as a courtesy but knowing the music was too loud for him to be heard. Pushing the door opened, he looked in.

There was a stench of too much incense, dirty clothes, old food and Christ knew what all. The room was almost in darkness except for a sliver of light coming from the bathroom door; it was barely ajar. Roy was on the bed, nude, seemingly asleep or passed out.

Jesus.

Dick looked around for the empty bottles but didn't see any in the gloom.

Fine. Good. Screw it. Let him sleep it off. At least he was finally quiet.

Dick went back to his own room to finish his homework.

A few weeks later the Titan meeting was over, the members mostly gone with the exception of Robin and Aqualad who was down at the dock readying his small boat for his return to Poseidonis. Robin was checking in with GCPD to see if there was anything new on that bank robbery when Speedy—who'd missed the meeting without explanation, wandered in and leaned his hip against the couch.

Robin didn't bother to look up. "Good of you to join us and where the fuck were you?"

"Nice to see you, too, Boy Wonder."

"Where were you?"

"I had to see a man about a car—what the hell do you care? I'm here now; what did I miss?"

"Check the minutes." Rob gave him a hard look, cut the connection to Gordon and stood up. "You look like shit; I hope she was worth it."

"More than you know, junior."

Attitude much? "You miss another meeting without a decent reason I'm going to have to…"

"You're gonna hafta do what, Batboy? Ground me? Tell my parents? Call the principal?" Roy pushed past Robin; "I'm shakin' now." The door closed behind him.

Robin shook his head—what the hell was the matter with him lately?

Another two months went by without any incidents worth mentioning, though Roy was busy most of the time and seemed caught up in a case or something. He was probably just working with Ollie or Dinah and things would resolve themselves son enough. That was the usual pattern, anyway.

But then a month later Roy started an argument with Garth which ended up with Roy being held underwater until he passed out and was way too close to drowning for it to be ignored. Garth held him under? _Garth? _Garth who was too shy to deal with the press? Garth who preferred to spend every meeting off to the side and almost never ventured an opinion? Garth who knew his tremendous strength could kill and so almost never used it? Garth, the peacemaker in the group, was pushed far enough to not only lose his temper but come close to killing one of his few friends?

No one thought Roy was blameless. No one believed that Garth just snapped or was having a bad day.

What the hell had Roy done this time?

Garth just shook his head and apologized. Roy just shrugged and muttered something unintelligible about "Stupid Gillhead…" and retreated to his room.

"Garth, c'mon, what happened? This isn't like you."

Garth gestured with his shoulder, an almost shrug which carried a denial of anything happening and coupled with a mumbled "Nothing…"

"Garth, I need to know. This isn't like either of you. Did he say something?"

Garth hesitated, shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable and embarrassed. "He said…" He stopped, blushing.

"What did he say?"

"He asked me if…" He cleared his throat and started again. "He made some comments about Tula and me, about our…physical relationship. I took offense."

Those must have been some cracks to get Garth to flip out. Cripes. "I'll talk to him."

"No, don't. Please. Besides…" He trailed off again.

"Besides, what? Talk to me."

Garth just shook his head, refusing to really answer. "I overreacted, the problem isn't between me and Roy—it's more than that but I can't…it's not my place to discuss this. You'll have to ask him." He ended the conversation by diving in the river and disappearing, dammit.

Frustrated, Robin went down to Roy's room, only to find that he'd left for the day and gone God knew where. Shit. Maybe Bruce had a good idea to attach GPS devices to their cars and clothing.

Frustrated, he pushed the door open and walked in, knowing he was invading Roy's privacy and not caring. The room was a mess; bed unmade, clothes everywhere, plates of uneaten and moldy food, towels on the floor, CD's and DVD's scattered around. There was a path from the door to the bed; the rest of the floor was covered with all kinds of crap.

The place smelled rank.

Seeing nothing obvious as first, he started a more methodical search and, within minutes, found what he suspected; 'works'.

Syringes, none too clean, a burned spoon, a small rubber hose to use as a tourniquet around the arm, matches and several small baggies with powder inside one, crack rocks in another and pills in a third. There were also several blank prescription pads from Leslie's clinic—obviously stolen. He sniffed the spoon: heroin, no question.

How long had this been going on? Who else knew or suspected?

And why?

Roy had problems, sure he did—everyone had problems but he also had resources most people didn't. He had Ollie, nominal as that may be. He had the Titans. He had the frigging Justice League to fall back on. He had friends almost everywhere he'd ever been in his life. He still had people he considered family back at the Reservation.

How did he pay for all this dope? Looking around the room, Robin finally noticed the blank spot where the mega stereo used to be, the empty shelf which used to hold the big screen TV and the lack of Roy's computer. And, come to think of it, he'd said his car was in the shop a few weeks ago—did he sell that, too?

Jesus.

Sitting on the bed stand, along with a pile of mostly unopened mail, was Roy's report card, dated last month. He had incompletes in every class he wasn't actually failing.

Did Ollie know? Christ, they shared an apartment, they'd known each other for ten years or more—was Ollie really this oblivious or was he using, too?

And that brought him to the sixty-four dollar question: what was he going to do about it?

Roy needed help, major help. He also knew Roy would never accept help from most of the people qualified to give it to him. Ollie either didn't know or wasn't involved enough in Roy's life to deal with it, the JLA would probably just send him to some rehab place which Roy would walk out of before dinner. The Titans clearly weren't prepared to cope with this. Leslie wasn't a specialist and would send him to wherever she sent addicts and Roy wouldn't accept that—ever. His friend out west? Yeah, right—the home of peyote and magic mushrooms and some of the best pot farms in the country? No go.

And if Roy didn't get help? He'd die. Easy question, easier answer.

Did he want help?

Who knew? And if he didn't, nothing and no one would work. Period. Simple.

Two hours later Dick had a trace on Roy, using everything at his disposal to find the boy and having no success. The obvious places produced nothing; the docks, the pushers in the park, Ollie's apartment, the bathroom in the bus station. He wasn't in any of them. Next he called Oracle; she drew a blank as well but promised to let him know if she heard anything; he didn't tell her why he was looking for Speedy.

Another hour and he carefully asked the other Titans if they had any idea if Roy was seeing anyone new. No one had any idea and Dinah was visiting her sister in New York. Dick declined to call Diana's place; she's tear a strip off him for bothering her and if she found out why he was calling, she's shred him.

Neither did he call Bruce, knowing how much he hated Roy and considered him a bad influence, a loser, a pain in the ass and a general waste of space. Bruce's probable reaction would be to tell Dick to cut his loses, kick the kid out of the Titans and forget he was ever born.

Not gonna happen.

He thought of one more place to check. Getting on his bike, he went over to the NYPD Evidence Locker storage warehouse down near the Village, showed his ID and was given access to the sign in book. There: this afternoon, a week ago and a week before that, making regular visits was Speedy, Teen Titan ID number 5.

Speedy was stealing the damn evidence from drug busts.

"Could I see the film from the security cameras? These dates." Robin gave the guard a list, the tapes were pulled and he watched them in the privacy of a back office.

Roy was caught red-handed. He was busted and he was seriously screwed when this got out, as it would sooner or later. So far Roy was simply flat out lucky the evidence guard was more into on-line poker than doing his job.

Later that night Robin went back to the Tower. He knew Roy had been crashing there—probably to avoid Ollie—and he wanted to see what was going on, talk to him and God knew what all. If the Gods were really smiling, maybe Roy would agree that he had a problem and would sign himself into rehab willingly.

Stranger things have happened, right?

The place was quiet when he got here about ten o'clock. No one seemed to be around, most of the lights were off and no music or TV's were going that he could hear; though Speedy was logged in on the main monitor board. He stopped in front of Roy's closed door. There was a sliver of light coming underneath but no sounds.

"Roy?" Nothing.

"Hey, Roy, you in there?" Nothing.

"C'mon, open up." Nothing.

Fine. Dick knew he was in there, one well-aimed kick broke the door open. There was a rank stink which permeated the entire suite.

No one in the front room.

No one in the bed room.

The bathroom door was ajar with light spilling out. Jesus.

Roy was sitting on the closed toilet, needle in his arm and passed out against the wall. Dick slapped his face, "Roy, Roy, c'mon—wake up." Nothing.

He checked the pulse and, with some surprise, found one. Speedy wasn't dead, not yet. Taking a tiny taste of the baggie's residue onto the tip of his finger and touching it to his tongue, Dick was surprised Roy was still alive—it was almost pure and a death sentence for anyone used to his stuff being cut with the usual crap and fillers.

Carefully taking the needle from his arm, Dick managed to maneuver the limp body into a position where he could get a grip and carry Roy over to the unmade and dirty bed, dried drops and smears of blood on the sheets and pillowcases added to the squalor. Unable and unwilling to stand it longer, Dick opened what windows he could, grateful for the fresh air replacing the fetid stench.

Bruce would be pissed, tell him not to get involved with a 'damn junkie' and Ollie—Ollie wouldn't believe it and then throw Roy out of his life. The rest of the Titans? They'd care--of course they'd care but they wouldn't know what to do, either and the rest of the JLA? They had things to do; they were probably off saving the universe again. Dr. Leslie? She'd know what to do, _of course_ she'd know what to do and she'd be great at it but she'd also report Roy to either the cops or insist that he get real, honest to God professional help, the kind you get in Hazleton or someplace like that. Roy would put up with that for about five minutes and then walk out and probably die of a damn OD.

So, unwilling to leave Roy alone and not knowing who to call who would take care of him beyond calling a detox center or hospital psych ward, he simply waited for Roy to sleep off the heroin.

It took several hours and by the time Roy pried his eyes slightly opened Dick had found all of his various stashes of his various kinds of drugs and flushed them. The works, the needles, spoons, matches, pipes and the rest were thrown out after being smashed beyond use. Amazing how cliché the hiding places were, really—under the mattress, in his shoes in the closet. Some were stashed in the tank of the toilet; more were under a loose tile in the floor, others in a ceiling tile in the main room. Two throw pillows on the couch were stuffed with crap, too. It was all predictable. Dick had gone down to the first aid room and locked up everything Roy might conceivably want to steal down there, as well.

"You with me?" Dick was sitting in an easy chair by the bed, pretending to read a worn paperback copy of Stranger in a Strange Land he'd found on the floor.

Roy grunted.

"I found you passed out in the bathroom, you almost OD'd." Roy almost focused on him. "You have any thoughts about that?"

Nothing. No answer.

"Nothing to say?"

"Thanks?" It was half question, half insult.

"Fuck yourself, Roy. You want to commit suicide, you're gonna have get past me to do it."

"Spare me the Boy Scout crap, Dick. 'S none of your bizness. My life, my choice."

"Bullshit. You want to die, then pick someplace you won't be found—your room in the Tower is a little obvious, asshole."

"'Wasn't tryin' to kill myself—it was stronger than I thought. 'Jus made a lil mistake, won't happen again. 'Where the others?"

"Not here."

"Good." Roy sat up, waking up—or coming to—faster than Dick expected. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and rubbing his face. He looked like hell—or rather, he looked like what he was: a junkie coming down.

"Roy…"

"Dick, jus' shut the fuck, up, okay? You wanna yell at me, tell me I'm a loser asshole, go ahead but I get that from Ollie everyday and I don' wanna hear it from you, too."

There was something in his tone which caught his attention and made Dick ask, "You want to stop, don't you?"

Roy shrugged and managed a small smirk. "'Shit feels good; you have no idea, Dickie-boy, believe me on this one."

"What's it feel like?"

"Better 'n sex. Like the best sex you ever had times like ten, times a hundred. No shit."

He stopped, looking at the dried vomit on the rug by his feet. "Yeah, I wanna get clean."

"I'll help you. If you mean it, I'll help you."

"How?" Roy was almost interested, afraid to be interested.

"We'll go somewhere, you and me. You kick it and I'll do whatever I can, whatever you need to beat this." Dick was thinking as he spoke. "Bruce has a cabin up in the Berkshires, away from everything, miles from any town or anything. It doesn't even have a phone and no one knows about it except us—he never even told the JLA about it. It's like his secret place."

"The fuckin' Bat will be there? Pass."

"No, no one, just you and me. I promise. No one will know except us."

Roy almost looked hopeful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looked around the wreck of a room, at the stained carpet, the burn marks on the bedstand, the ruined sheets, the piles of filthy clothes and moldy plates of food. "Okay."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

They left the Tower about ten minutes later, before either of them could change their minds. Dick had his civilian car, the one he'd gotten when he turned sixteen, parked inside a secure warehouse across the river. It was Subaru because Alfred had read they had the highest safety rating and Bruce wasn't in the mood to argue that particular evening. It was fine; in fact, it was pretty nice.

Dick had called the Manor and said he'd be tied up for a week or two on Titan business and not to worry. Bruce, not happy, had finally agreed when Dick reminded him that he was off all next week for Spring break. Roy said Ollie wouldn't care and probably not notice where he was or that he was missing, so that concern was out of the mix. The coast, as it were, was clear.

It took almost three hours, but the rolled up to the dark cabin about two in the morning and by the time they were inside, Roy was starting to act hyper—restless, ready to go running or something.

It was the first sign of withdrawal.

"How come you started using?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Roy—how come?"

He stopped in his too fast looking around the cabin, picking up everything he found, looking at it for a millisecond and then going on to whatever caught his eye next. He was unable to stand still, to sit and lying down was out of the question. "It's all bullshit, Boy Wonder—'teen hero feels ignored by mentor and turns to drugs to fill the void'. Pretty damn cliché, right?"

"You're saying Ollie didn't notice anything?"

"Of course Ollie didn't notice anything, he was too busy screwing Dinah to give a rat's ass what happened to me." He dropped a hand made Indian platter—probably antique and the kind of thing Ralph Lauren would cream over before it shattered into a thousand pieces. "Jesus, sorry."

"'Doesn't matter." Dick pointed Roy into the master bedroom simply because it was on the main floor instead of up in the loft. "Try to sleep; this might be easier if you sleep through part of it."

Roy barely smiled. "You really don't have a clue, do you, Dick?" He let himself be led.

The first night went through the beginning of the third day. Along with the hyper behavior there was the insomnia coupled with the need for a fix. Roy had been using enough and long enough that he needed more junk every ten hours or so. Yeah, he had it bad. He begged, he threatened, he cursed, he physically attacked Dick.

He didn't get so much as an aspirin.

Dick locked the windows and doors to keep Roy inside. The cabin was in the middle of almost five hundred acres of Bruce's undeveloped property but the woods were thick and easy to get lost in. If he went out there, especially at night, it would be a nightmare to get him back.

"What the fuck are you doing with that?"

"GPS anklet. Deal with it."

"Go to hell."

There was a fight which took out a small end table and the lamp sitting on it (an antique Tiffany), but Dick finally got Roy down and pinned so the anklet went on.

This was the easy part.

Seventy-three hours into the detox, the hyper part ended. That was when the hard part began.

"Eat something, you need to keep up your strength, Roy."

"'Not really thinking about food right now."

"Eat anyway."

"My stomach's upset, I'm nauseous." Roy tried, he took a couple of spoonfuls of the caned soup Dick had heated up, turned green and headed for the bathroom fast but not making it in time. The first rounds landed on the living room rug. The second round was in the bathroom, but not in time to reach the toilet, Dick caught that batch.

"Christ, sorry."

"S'okay."

He vomited until all that came up was yellow bile and then continued with dry heaves. Two hours into this, "Jesus, that fucking hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My stomach, fucking hurts like a bitch."

"What can I do? Cold pack, heat?"

"Nothing, you can't do anything."

Despite the anklet and the obvious pain he was in—and being weak from three hours of vomiting, Roy started trying to get out, get to town, get dope. He tried non-stop, begging, pleading, threatening and finally he took a chair and went out the picture window in the living room. Dick tackled him as he made it as far as the front porch and brought him down, cutting his forearm in the process.

"Oh, fuck—man. Jesus, Dick, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry—you know I'd never do anything to hurt you, you know that, don't you? I'll help you—Christ, you need stitches, get the car, I'll drive us. C'mon, man, I'll get you help."

"Get your ass back inside, we're not going anywhere."

"Dick, Dude, c'mon…"

"Shut up and get back in there." Dick pulled the largish sliver of glass out of his arm, relieved to see that it seemed to have missed anything of major importance, and wrapped a clean kitchen towel around it. Tying it with some twine he found in a drawer. Yeah, this needed stitches but they could wait. He knew enough about first aid to make do with some butterflies hoping they'd hold long enough. He knew damn well why Roy wanted to get to town.

"Roy?"

He heard the car motor start and ran outside in time to just catch the driver's side door as it started to roll, leaning in through the opened window, pushing past Roy. He switched the ignition off then pulled the keys out. "Get the fuck out of the car."

"Gimme an hour, that's all, Dick—c'mon. Please."

His feet back on the ground, Dick got himself out of the car window, yanked the door opened and bodily pulled Roy out onto the ground and then jerked his arm to force him to stand. "Inside."

"Your arm's bleeding, man, we'll just go to a clinic or something, get you patched up."

"Get your ass inside _now_." It was the batvoice, Roy knew he was beaten for now.

Dick marched him into the bathroom, getting out the first aid stuff and forced Roy to just sit while he did what he could for him freely bleeding arm.

"Oh man, Dick this is my fault—I'm fucking sorry, I mean it—I'm really sorry." The now blood soaked towel was tossed into the garbage.

"It's fine, just stop your crap, okay?" Dick was wondering what he could do to block off the broken window and realized that there wasn't much he could do one handed that Roy wouldn't be able to blow through in like five seconds. "Come with me and don't be stupid." They went to the kitchen, Roy sitting at the small table and Dick pulling out the local phone book. He made a call, found a carpenter who was willing to come, board the broken window up for now and then come back when he had more time and really fix it in a couple of weeks. He'd be there in an hour, as soon as he stopped at Home Depot and picked up a couple of sheets of plywood. He'd have to charge double since it was last minute and all but… "It's fine, just do it as quickly as possible, please."

The carpenter hung up and told his wife he'd be back in a few hours—rich kids partying too hard and afraid their parents would find out; it was an old story around here.

Things were quiet for the next twenty minutes; Roy chastised by the sight of Dick's blood and bandaged arm. Them; "Where's the phone?"

"Why?"

"Ollie will wonder where I am. I should call him."

"I'll call him for you."

"I'll do it, otherwise he'll wonder."

"No, he won't."

"C'mon, Dick, where's the phone?"

"Drop it, Roy, you're not calling your dealer."

"I wasn't going to…"

"Forget it."

"Fuck you, Grayson, give me the damn phone."

"No."

Roy made a grab for Dick's back jean's pocket but missed as Dick twisted away and gave him a side handed chop across his neck and spun out of Roy's reach. He went down—down but not out.

"That frigging hurt."

"Give me the phone."

"Roy..."

"Crap." Roy headed for the bathroom as the dry heaves started again, more violently this time. Dick stayed beside him, using a damp washcloth to wipe his face and neck as the sweat started beading up then dripping down his face and into his clothes.

The two of them sat on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night, Roy vomiting anything he tried to put in his stomach the just bile came up again.

"Jesus, it fucking hurts."

"What, where does it hurt?"

"My stomach, it's fucking cramping up, man. Fucking hurts." Roy's face was pale now, the sheen of sweat constant, his clothes soaked. The room reeked of vomit and dirty bodies. "C'mon, I need some stuff."

"No."

"Dick, Jesus…"

"Tough it out. It's gonna get better."

"Not for another fucking week—Dick, fucking please; help me." He was begging and now he meant it, he was starting the agony.

"No. C'mon, Roy, you can do this. You can beat this."

Sitting on the filthy floor, Roy looked up at him and started crying. "No, I can't."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three/Conclusion**

"Yes, you can."

"Dick, _please_."

"Stop it, Roy. You know I'm not going to get you any of that shit." Roy started crying again, in real pain. "You done throwing up for a while?" He nodded weakly. "I'm gonna move you into the bedroom, try to get you out of these clothes and make you a little more comfortable."

A few minutes later Roy was lying in the bed wearing just a pair of Bruce's too large sweat pants. He was still sweating, still suffering through the stomach cramps, then, "Jesus…" Dick gave him some cool water to sip and he managed to down almost an entire glass. It made sense—he had to be pretty dehydrated by now. He started moaning again, his hands going to his calves and knees.

"What?"

"My legs are cramping—do something!"

Dick tried; he used his good hand to massage the tight and knotted muscles. The sliced arm was still seeping blood when he did anything with it and he knew that he should have gotten stitches when it happened—impossible as that may have been. If he'd gone to a hospital or clinic, Roy would either be shooting up or in some ER or psych ward, both of which would probably guarentee his death sooner rather than later.

"It's not helping. Try something else—please, Dick, _please_."

Dick went to get a hot water bottle, maybe that would make a difference. It took about ten minutes to heat the water and by the time he got back with the rubber bottle wrapped in a towel, Roy was doubled up in a fetal position, groaning and crying again. He'd also barfed again, this time in the bed and had rolled into the mess.

Dick did what he could to get Roy away from the wet spot so he could try top change the bed and Roy's clothes again but quickly realized there was no point. The mattress would have to be tossed when this was done, along with God knew what else. Bruce would shit—well, he'd just cross that bridge when they got to it.

He gave Roy the hot water bottle, which he immediately clutched against his stomach. The moaning and sweats continued, but, after almost three and a half days with virtually no sleep or food, Roy finally crashed, at least for a while. Dick, equally exhausted but unable to sleep because of more pain than he'd admit from his slashed arm, did what he could to try to clean up some of the mess.

Dick gathered the things which might be salvedged by a trip through the washing machine—their clothes, various towels, bedding and a couple of throw pillows from the living room. He was about to put Roy's disgusting jeans in when he felt the wallet in the back pocket. Taking it out, he flipped through the contents. There were a few dollars, all singles, the usual insurance cards, his school ID and three social security cards, all with different names and numbers. There was a fake New York State driver's license with Roy's name and another with his picture and a different name, this one from Pennsylvania. There were four credit cards with unknown names on them, a platinum MasterCard issued to Oliver Queen and another platinum card, a Visa, for Bruce Wayne. Dick never did find out how he got that one or if it was another forgery

So was he stealing this stuff or were they all fake? Did it make any difference?

Shit.

And this was just what he'd found in Roy's wallet—God knew what all he had stolen and stashed other places. TV's? Credit cards? Jewelry? Dick remembered Dinah complaining a few months ago that she'd misplaced some expensive gold chain she'd inherited from her grandmother or someone. And pretty much everything hockable in his Titan's apartment was gone, too.

Roy was right—what a fucking cliché.

His arm began throbbing again and he searched through the medicine cabinet, finding a bottle of extra strength Advil, popping four; he looked around the cabin while he waited for them to kick in. This place was Bruce's secret getaway, the one no one knew about, the one without a TV, phone, fax or even a computer. It was understated and even modest, especially by Bruce's standards; an old log hunting cabin built in the 20's with a main room/kitchen, one real bedroom, an open loft with a mattress on the floor and a bathroom, that was all. Well, there was a front porch but it was opened on three sides with an ancient glider off to the side. No heat other than a stone fireplace and water from a well, drawn by an electric pump. It faced a small private lake and was set in the middle of hundreds of acres of undeveloped woods. Almost no one knew the place was owned by Bruce Wayne and the few who did assumed it was just a real estate investment to be developed at some point for huge profits. Dick knew it would stay the way it was, that was Bruce's plan. When things got to be too much, this was where he came to de-stress for a few days, alone with a pile of books. He'd walk in the woods, read and get centered to fight another day.

Of course, that only happened once every five years or so. He and Roy would be undisturbed.

Finally, exhaustion and the Advil's combined and he fell asleep on the old couch, a slightly mildewed blanket covering him.

Some hours later Dick jerked awake. He'd heard something, someone was moving around and his arm was killing him again. The drugs had worn off. "Roy, where are you going?"

"Just wanted some fresh air—this place stinks."

"Open a window."

"Need a walk, walk off these cramps."

"Do some exercises here."

"Dick, c'mon, they're getting worse—my back is getting really bad and my shoulders…"

"No."

Roy looked at him as Dick sat up, his face a mixture of the beginnings of real desperation, pain, frustration and maybe hopelessness. There was no other way, he had to tough this out, he had to stick it out or it wouldn't work, they both knew this.

The muscle spasms were getting worse—his legs, back, arms, shoulders, his hands and fingers were all cramping, clenching at will and as tight as knots. He was too sick right now to try to run, though Dick didn't put the effort past him, either.

It all just added to Roy's misery and they were still a long way from being home free.

"Dick, man, _please_."

"Take a hot shower, that may relax your muscles." Dick stood up; "I'll help you."

Roy removed the too big sweats and dropped them on the bathroom floor while Dick started the water and found a couple of towels.

"Jesus!" That was when the diarrhea hit. Without warning and uncontrolable, nonstop and lasting for almost 24 hours. Dick made Roy stay in the bathroom, but, despite at least half a dozen showers, it was still impossible to maintain anything more that the most basic level of anything resembling hygiene in the place.

Soon after it started, Dick realized that Roy was in serious danger of major dehydration and tried to force water since that was all they had. It helped to a degree, but he was sure it wasn't enough—if Roy made it through this, he'd probably need a couple of weeks in a hospital just to get his body back to a minimum level of functioning.

They opened the windows, Dick mopped and cleaned everything he could, including Roy, but it was a losing battle. The room, Roy and Dick all reeked with the stench and the front room was like a damn funeral parlour with the window boarded up. The carpenter had come and gone, saying nothing, but Dick knew the story of how Wayne's kid and his friends had trashed the rich guy's private cabin would be making the local rounds.

After five days of withdrawal, Roy was close to breaking. "I don't care, get me meth or something. Dick I can't do this, I can't."

"Yes you can, you're more than halfway through it, you're gonna be okay."

"I can't, I can't do this, I can't…"

"I'm not getting you any drugs, Roy, you know that. Stop asking."

"Dick, Jesus, please."

"No."

Time seemed to stop, at least as far as Dick was concerned. Exhausted, filthy, hungry and flat out worn out, he was close to breaking, himself. His arm hurt non-stop and he could see it was infected. His entire body ached and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hang on with this, though he knew that if Roy had any hope, this was it.

Dick knew they both needed food, but the only stuff in the cabin was whatever could be had in cans—soup, meat, really bad Italian and various vegatables. He found a couple of pounds of pasta in a plastic bag and decided to make some kind of casserole which might be easy on Roy's stomach but still provide some protein and vitamins. Leaving Roy on the bathroom floor, he made a quick dinner his own mother used to make when they were broke and she didn't have time (or the money) to hit a store. A pound of cooked pasta, a can of tuna and a can of cream of chicken soup—quick and easy. Mix them together and you had something you should be able to eat and, with luck, keep down.

"C'mon, Roy, you gotta try to eat some of this."

"You're a shitty cook, Grayson."

"I know, eat it anyway."

Roy tried, managing a small bowl full and clearly using mind over matter to try to keep it in his stomach. Dick ate what he could of the rest, throwing the leftovers out for some animal to find—the place didn't have a fridge.

Carrying the empty bowls to the kitchen, Dick knew his arm was getting worse. The pain was still there, the blood still seeped whenever he moved it wrong and reopened the wound and he knew the infection hadn't sucummed to the small tube of Neosporin he'd found and which was now gone. He had a fever and generally felt pretty much like crap but it was hardly the worst thing which had ever happened to him and he'd learned to be professional at sucking it up. Working as a kid performer and then as Batman's right hand elf were the best ways he knew to absorb the concept of 'tough it out'. But he was wishing with all his heart and soul that this would end soon.

Hearing the sounds of Roy's dinner reappearing, he hoped, as he went back to the bathroom, that this time he hit the toilet and not the floor.

He didn't.

"C'mon, Roy—you're on the upside by now, the symptoms usually start subsiding after four or five days. This should be getting easier."

"'Just moving into the next phase, Junior. Cold sweats, chills and the fucking bugs are eating me from the inside out." He was scratching his arms, his legs, his belly, his face—everywhere he could reach. "I know the drill, okay?" His nails were slipping and leaving marks in the sheen of sweat which covered his skin, he was shaking with cold and scratching, all at the same time.

'Junkie Itch'. It was like there are bugs crawling inside your skin, like maggots eating you from the inside out.

"It's almost over, this is the end of it, Roy, you know that. You get through this and you're there. 'Not much longer, man, I'm telling you, hang on a while longer."

"Go to hell." Roy's scratching was becoming frenzied, he was starting to make himself bleed; Dick pulled him into the shower again and turned the cold water on as hard as it would come out of the faucet.

"Does that help?"

"Nothing fucking helps, jackass—even _you_ fucking know that." Roy's arm moved too fast for Dick to avoid. Maybe it was a spasm, maybe it was the itching, maybe he was just fed up and striking out; whatever it was, he caught Dick's face with his full strength and then hit his injured arm dead on.

Dick recoiled, pulling back, trying to prevent any further damage to his now reopened wound but he slipped on the wet floor and went down hard, Roy tripping over him as he lay on the floor. Blood and water now mixed with the residue of vomit, diarrhea making the tile as slippery as ice. They ended up tangled, arms and legs and blood all mixing. "Get the hell off me!"

Crying again, Roy slid into the farthest corner, as far away from Dick as he could get, trying to scratch, his hands on his face, digging into his skin while his limbs twitched and sweat stood out on his skin. Dick let him lay there, getting up to find something to rewrap his forearm before the cut tore more of his flesh than it already had. "Stay here, asshole—you hear me? Don't frigging move."

Five minutes or so later Dick had his arm encased in the last relatively clean piece of fabric in the cabin, an old kitchen towel and had it as secured as it was going to get with a couple feet of string. It was going to need serious attention when they got out of here and he was hoping it would heal without any permanent damage but it was too soon to know. Roy was where he'd left him, still scratching, though the muscle spasms seemed to be getting less severe.

"You know as well as I do that even if we get through this, the odds are that I'll relapse, don't you?"

Dick sat on the floor next to Roy, a damp washcloth is his hand again to do what little he could to help him feel a little less horrible. "I know the stats, yeah."

They exchanged a look, both knowing that inside of a week or a month or a year Roy could be back at square one or dead. It was just a fact.

"You'll be okay. I think you're gonna make it."

"You're a fucking boy scout. The odds are ten to one against me, we both know that."

"Yeah, I know. I also know that you're a Titan and before that you managed to get past your mother walking out and your father dying in a fire. You're not a loser."

Still scratching his face, Roy gave him a filthy look. "And you're an asshole."

"Takes one to know one, Harper. At least you stopped barfing. The cramping getting any better?"

"Not yet. Ten days, that's what it takes."

"That's what I've heard and this is day six, so you're almost there."

"Yeah, cake walk from here." He was scratching his left leg—hard, drawing blood. "Maybe the shower will help again."

The rest of the night was just a variation on previous ones. Roy was in pain, he had Junkie Itch, cold sweats and was shivering. The barfing and the muscle cramps were subsiding, but were still kicking in every once in a while just so he wouldn't forget them. Finally, lying on the ruined mattress half way through the seventh day, he rallied himself enough to see Dick sitting slumped in the overstuffed easy chair in the corner.

He had a black eye and the left side of his face was swollen and bruised; it looked like his lip was spilt, too. His arm was in some kind of a make-shift sling and was still oozing blood, though Roy had no memory of either of the injuries happening.

Dick's looked up, Roy had the feeling they'd been pried opened by sheer force of will. "You're awake, good. Any better?"

"Yeah, still feel like half-baked crap on a shingle, but I could eat. 'You?"

"I guess. I'll see what we have left in the kitchen." Dick hoisted himself out of the chair with none of his usual grace. He was moving the way he had when they'd gotten back from a three week go around with Doctor Death and been as whipped as Roy had ever seen Dick. Until now.

So, he'd been as bad as Doctor Death? Jesus.

Dick looked like hell. Dick looked like he felt and that was like total crap.

A few minutes later he came back carrying a tray with a couple mugs of some kind of soup on it. He handed one to Roy and then sat back in the chair to have his own.

"I did that to you?" Roy indicated the various injuries and he already knew the answer, he just wanted to see what Dick's answer would be. It was just a nod. "I'm sorry." It was softly spoken and sad.

"'S'okay."

"No, it isn't and I won't forget it."

"Stay clean, than we'll be square." Dick was eating non-stop, clearly famished. "Eat."

Roy did as he was told. It had been over a week, and most of the withdrawal symptoms were still with him, just reduced to an almost manageable level. He knew they'd fade as days went by. He also knew it was probable that in a month he'd be using again. Dick knew it, too.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Dick finished his soup. "Now what? You think you're almost ready to leave?"

"Maybe tomorrow. I'll help you clean this place before we go." Something occurred to Roy. "Who knows we're here?"

"No one—well, the local carpenter who blocked up the front window. He just thinks we're a couple of drunk college kids or something."

"Who knows about me?"

"Me."

"And?"

"And you."

"That's it?"

"Yeah—who did you want me to tell?"

Roy stopped talking. Nobody. That's who he wanted Dick to tell; no body. "Thanks."

"You said that already." Dick always was one for understatement.

"Look, I'll be okay" Roy saw the look on Dick's face but went on. "You get some sleep—you look like shit. I'll do what I can to clean, or…"

"Or what? You don't really think I'm going to sleep right now, do you?"

"Maybe not. What I was going to say was that we can make some calls and find someone to clean this place up and we'll—_I'll_ give them money."

"There's no phone and my cell is dead," Dick shook his head, close to his own breaking point. "We'll clean as much as we can and then we'll come back in a week or two and replace everything that's been ruined. I'll get that carpenter to replace the window and we'll take it from there ourselves. With any luck at all, Bruce won't find out any time soon."

"He's gonna find out, thought."

"Of course he is, just not now."

Four hours later, both of them whipped and Roy still hurting from residual withdrawal and Dick in pain from his arm and the shots he'd taken from Roy, the cabin was as clean as they'd be able to get it for now. "You think you can handle going back now? I mean…"

"You mean am I going to call a dealer when we get back? I'm going to call Star Labs when we get back and have them find me the best rehab guy on the East Coast and I'm going to do whatever he says—a halfway house, formal rehab—whatever it takes."

"Yeah?" Dick looked dubious. That sounded too easy, too glib.

"Yeah."

"Good. I don't want to have to go through this again."

"You and me both, bro."

The car still had the scratches on the driver's door from where Roy had dragged Dick during his escape attempt days ago. Neither of them had thought to close the window and some animal had made a nest on the back seat. Inured to such things at this point, they simply swept the leaves and feces out with their hands and forgot about them.

They pulled onto Route 90, heading home. "You gonna tell Ollie? He's gotta know."

"Yeah, when I get back, as soon as I see him. You gonna tell the Bat?"

"I guess, eventually."

They watched the scenery go by for a dozen miles. "Dick, how come you did this?"

He didn't answer immediately. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Too easy, Rob, and you answered a question with a question."

A few minutes went by before Dick answered. Roy saw cows in a field. "I don't have many friends—I mean _real_ friends. I don't want to lose any. And we've been through a lot of the same crap—I don't mean fighting the bad guys; I mean losing our families, dealing with screwed up rich guys like Bruce and Ollie. It's like we're karmic brothers or something." Dick stopped, embarrassed.

Roy looked over at him, Dick watching the road as he drove, not making eye contact. "Yeah."

"But Roy? You slip—you're gone."

"Yeah, I know—in more ways than one, Bro."

6/15/08


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**Detox—Aftermath**

So it was behind them, or so they all tried to pretend.

It wasn't true, of course; it hung over the Titans, The members of the JLA, and especially Oliver Queen and Dick Grayson because they were the ones who blamed themselves the most for having missed the symptoms. Well, all right, Roy shouldered the most blame, but that's a given.

Dick and Roy got back from the cabin with a lot of explaining to do.

They ended up back at the Tower, immediately going down to Roy's suite to clean as much as feasible. Partly this was cathartic, partly it was simple necessity and partly it gave Dick a reason to stay close so Roy wouldn't call a dealer. The bedding, the towels from the bathroom, a large part of Roy's civilian wardrobe were all loaded into garbage bags and dumped out back. The rug would have to be pulled up and replaced and the walls needed painting, as well. There were at least twelve ceiling tiles needing to be replaced and two windows had cracked panes.

They did as much as they could and then called in a discrete decorating service used to dealing with rock bands to take care of the rest. The bill was in the tens of thousands and paid for in cash. Roy swore he'd pay Dick back as soon as possible and made good on his promise. Within two years the debt, plus interest, was wiped clean.

Next, three days later, with Roy now over the worst of the symptoms of the cold turkey, Robin called a Titans meeting. The kids assembled, curious why they were there and Dick—not Robin—handed over the floor to Roy. Four pairs of eyes were on him as he stood up, nervous, to talk to his friends.

"Yeah, well it's like this…" He stopped and looked over at Dick who nodded encouragement. "I've kind of had a problem the last year or so, I guess you've maybe noticed, huh?" The others nodded or just waited for him to continue. "I made a mess of things and I didn't handle it well—I sort of, I made a mistake and I…" He stopped again then straightened his shoulders as he forced himself to just say it. "I'm an addict. Heroin. Dick found out and he made me get straight—I mean I _wanted_ to, but he's the reason I could do it. He stayed with me and he, I mean, he pretty much saved my life."

Everyone turned to Dick, as usual, looking for a cue about what to do. "First of all, Roy did this, got clean. I was just there, nothing else. Secondly, we all now what it means to try to shake this—maybe not first hand, but we've all seen it. I know you'll all do whatever you can to help him. Third, Roy is on medical leave for a while so he can get solid with being clean." He paused, making sure everyone was really taking this in. "Next, obviously no comments to the press if this gets out—and we all know it will. Finally, the Titans go on. We do our work, business as usual. Questions?"

Garth, usually the last to say anything, had been watching Roy since they'd all come into the room. "But why would you do this?" It was soft spoken and said with some hesitation, as though Garth really didn't understand how something like this could happen.

Roy, for once, bypassed the easy quip and insult. "I guess I thought it would make pain go away. I know that sounds stupid and self-serving, but that's about as good as I can explain it."

"But—everyone has pain."

Roy just nodded. He knew that.

Wally didn't say anything, probably not knowing what he could say and Donna, close to tears, simply went over and hugged Roy for a long time. It was about what he'd expected would happen when his friends knew about him. He knew they'd stand by him and offer their support. He also knew, with every fiber of his being that from now on, when they worked together, there would be a small kernel of doubt about him and he didn't know how to make that go away. He had no idea how to make them understand that they could trust him.

* * *

"This is completely unacceptable and you know it—clearly the reason you lied about where you were going and why. And yes—you're paying for the damage to the cabin. David called me as soon as you he boarded up the front window you broke. Not Roy. Not Ollie. _You're_ paying since this mess was your idea."

"Bruce…"

"Don't." He held up his hand, as thought to physically stop Dick from even trying to defend what he'd done. "Ollie is Roy's guardian; if anything, didn't common sense tell you that he had to be informed? Didn't you owe him—and me—the simply courtesy of letting us know what was going on?"

"You would have stopped us and Roy would be in some bullshit rehab which he would have walked out of inside of the first ten minutes of being there. This was the only way to get him clean."

"That's not your decision to make—you have neither the experience nor the medical background to make that decision."

"C'mon, f'chrissake. I saved his life!"

Bruce gave Dick the look he hated the most, the one where he was a bug and Bruce had him under a microscope. "You managed to get a heroin addict to go through detox once. You know what the odds are. You may have done more harm than good with this stunt. He may well have backslid already and then who's supposed to pick him up next time? Are you going to be there for him again? Are you going to be there for him 24/7 for the rest of your life? That's what this is, you have to know that. Do you plan to move in with him so you can keep an eye on him?"

"Jesus, give him some credit, will you? And me, too while you're at it. I know all the stats and the odds. I _have_ worked narcotics cases, I do have so insight into this and, even if that weren't true, Roy is my friend."

"Oh, please. He's a junkie and you're a sixteen year old who thinks you can make it better by holding his hand."

"Dammit, Bruce, I'm not just some kid, I've been working narcotics since I was ten years old; it's not like I've never seen a junkie. I know what it's about, I know what it means; I'm not just 'some sixteen year old' and neither is Roy—and you know it."

Bruce sat back, taking a breath, shifting gears and changing tacks. "Okay, you're right. You're not a naïve kid and neither is Roy, but you have to know that what you're trying to do is this side of impossible. Heroin addicts have almost a ninety percent failure history at kicking the drug and staying clean. You're setting yourself and Roy up for a hard fall." He was being reasonable, calm, appealing to Dick's rational side.

"I know the odds; they don't matter. Roy's a Titan—if he can do that, he can do this."

His heels were dug in; he wouldn't budge, at least not so Bruce could see. Dick would defend and do any and everything to help Roy get through this and nothing Bruce could say would change that. It went beyond simple stubbornness or childish faith in the world being a fair place. Roy was part of Dick's extended family, the one which was born when his parents were killed. Bruce knew that he'd do everything possible to ensure that he never lost anyone else who mattered to him.

* * *

Roy used his key to let himself into Ollie's apartment. Thought it was after none PM, the lights were off and it had the unmistakable feel of a place with no one home.

Ollie was probably on patrol or with Dinah, maybe both. There was a note on the kitchen counter, 'pizza in the freezer. Back later, O'.

Just a normal night in the Queen household.

Roy hoped someone had cleaned out his stash so he wouldn't be tempted and suddenly wished he'd stayed at the Tower, despite his room being trashed. Either that or gone over to the Manor with Dick—anything would be better than being alone tonight.

Screw it—the longest journey begins with the first step, right? Wasn't today the first day of the rest of his life? One step at a time, left, right, left, right and that's all there was to it.

He could do this.

Going into his own room he looked in the shoebox behind the pile of crap on his closet shelf and found his works with enough stuff to take him through the morning.

Easy.

He took the box down, went into the bathroom with it and sat on the edge of the vanity looking at the needles and all. Piece of cake, two minutes or less and he's be feeling no pain at all. He'd be flying, free, feeling good and wouldn't have to worry about any of this crap—about what Ollie would say, about the look on Donna's face when she hugged him, about the pile of shit the Bat was dumping on Dick right about now.

No problems.

Just put the powder in the spoon, get out the matches, tie the rubber hose around his arm and away we go.

He sat there, making up his mind, thinking about what would happen. Dick would be disappointed but wouldn't give up, at least not yet. Ollie would shrug and figure he had nothing to do with it. Donna would cry. Wally would…Wally wouldn't understand. And Garth? Who knew what he ever thought? He was so far out in the Ozone most of the time Roy was surprised he functioned at all. Ollie was screwed up? Try Arthur—he was _seriously_ messed up.

In an abrupt movement he opened the bathroom window and threw the box as far as he could.

* * *

NYPD looked at the same security tapes Robin accessed a few months before; the ones showing Speedy taking hard drugs from the evidence locker. There was a meeting of Internal Affairs which stretched on past dinner without resolution.

"The kid has an Interpol badge and another one from Star City. He's got a rep and he's a Titan—those damn kids are role models and we all know cops need more good publicity. Hell, those kids can't fart without it making the papers and we all know it. I'm telling you, this gets out, there'll be hell to pay."

"Sam, c'mon, sure, but none of that changes the fact the kid was caught red handed stealing contraband evidence and then using. We gotta make an example, show that we don't play favorites just cause he's high profile."

"I know that, but weight the pros and the cons here. There's no reason why he should be let off, but there's also no reason why this should make the papers. I want this investigation and any resulting decisions sealed—everyone agree with that? I'm talking about the good of the department."

There was some grumbling but everyone nodded in agreement. This would stay behind closed doors.

Hopefully.

That was the plan. Of course it didn't stay quiet because people talk, it's just human nature and when the people involved were Speedy and then you threw Robin in the mix as well…furgeddaboutit. The story hit the papers and it hit hard.

First there were rumors, unaccredited blurbs: 'Which well known young vigilante was recently in a personal and private lockdown to shake a few nasty habits? We wish him luck.'

That opened the floodgates and from then on it was a feeding frenzy.

The Titans and the JLA were all inundated with requests for comments about the identity of the rumored victim. No one said anything, the only responses given were a steady stream of 'no comments' but between leaks in the police departments and the tenacity of the reporters, it was just a matter of time before the stonewall began to crumble.

First, because of the wording of the tease, it was assumed that it had to be one of the youngsters and a male one, at that so Wonder Girl was crossed off the list. There weren't too many young boys working and it wasn't hard to follow their movements for the last few months. Kid Flash was accounted for working in the Midwest the last few months with no large breaks. Robin was seen in Gotham regularly and besides, he had Batman looking out for him—him doing hard drugs would be a long shot. Batman would kill him—or at least ground him, plus he couldn't do the acrobatics he did if he were high. So that left Speedy and Aqualad. Speedy was a possibility since he always was a little on the smart-ass, obnoxious side, the kind of kid who had a rebellious streak and Aqualad always seemed a little out of it even on a good day. That might be marked down to drugs and who knew anything about what was or wasn't considered okay in some oddball place like Atlantis?

The Titans couldn't appear anywhere without having the questions shouted at them; "Yo, Robin, you still using?" "Wonder Girl, C'mon, you know who it is, right? Help us out here." "Speedy, it's you, right? You're the junkie." "Fishboy, that common where you come from? And how the hell do you grow poppies underwater, huh?"

The answer was always the same: 'No comment'.

Robin tried to encourage them, remind them that wouldn't last forever, "As soon as something else happens this will be old news, this will fade away. Just ride it out, this won't last much longer."

The Internet went insane for the story; blogs sprung up and were inundated with opinions and suggestions.

The kids were invited to speak on all the Sunday morning news programs, Nightline, 20/20. The morning shows and Barbara Walters did everything she could think of to get the exclusive interview, offering to go wherever they wanted to meet and adding that she wouldn't do anything to embarrass them in any way—though she didn't promise not to attempt to make them cry.

There was an editorial in the NY Times: 'Teen Titans—Empowered or Enabled?'

The National Enquirer and the Star competed to see who could publish the least faltering picture of the assumed addicts—either Speedy or Aqualad, which caused Arthur to recall Garth back to Atlantis for six months, ignoring the fact that he was blameless and adding fuel to the fire.

People magazine featured the Titans on three successive covers, outlining both their positive and negative aspects and then asking readers to write in with their opinions, They received over two hundred thousand letters.

The legality of allowing teenagers, accredited though they may be, to chase criminals and risking life and limb before they'd graduated high school was debated in both houses of Congress. There were calls to outlaw them for their own protection.

There were suggestions that not only the Titans, but all the superheroes, should have access to the best psychological counseling available.

There were cries demanding to know where their parents were and how had they allowed such a thing to happen.

There were questions wondering there was just one Titan involved in the drug use or were they all using? And were they also selling? Goodness, that headquarters they had must have cost a pretty penny and how on earth would children finance that sort of thing?

To everything, to every question and invitation to explain themselves or to answer questions they gave the same answer: 'no comment'.

And during all this, the Titans and the JLA went about their business as usual.

And Roy stayed clean.

* * *

"Well, I was against it from the beginning. I've said it before and I'll say it again—those kids have no business being on the front line. It's dangerous and we don't have the time for babysitting."

"Sit down, Clark. You've also said how impressed you are by the kids and you've gone out of your way any number of times to lend them a hand. I also recall you going on about how impressed you are with Robin and that wasn't too long ago, either." Barry wasn't in the mood for this. Wally wasn't involved and, as far as he could tell, Roy—no surprise, was the only one who'd ever used drugs.

"Clark is right; they're too young, too inexperienced, too naïve to handle this kind of work. I think we should stop them, force them to disband until they're older and better equipped to cope with the pressures."

Bruce gave her a steady look. "Your own sister is a member of the Titans, _Princess_, or am I mistaken?"

"And _your_ ward decided to take a peer through heroin withdrawal without any medical backup and without anyone's knowledge. How many thousands of dollars worth of damage did they cause, again?"

Superman banged the gavel, "That's enough, sit down, both of you. We're here to discuss whether or not having sidekicks should be banned. Opinions?"

GL spoke up. "I want them disbanded, both for their own protection and to take away the problems they're causing us and every other hero operating. This mess is overshadowing everything else we're doing and taking attention away from the positive side of our work."

"I like having the kids around, I mean, just speaking for myself. They lighten things up and they're pretty good at what they do—at least I think so, anyway." J'onn looked upset at even having to be there. "And not one of them has caused any real problems before this, have they? They're, every one of them, bright, hard working, dedicated and all of that. I think we should leave them alone."

Diana shook her head. "We did leave them alone and this is what happened."

It went back and forth for another twenty minutes, Clark finally interrupting. "I think we should get some of them in here and listen to what they have to say." He pressed a button on the table's control pad. "Robin? Please come in." The young man walked in, confident but clearly concerned about how this was going. "All right, you've heard what we've been saying, do you have a response?"

He nodded. "You know us, you all know all of us and you also know the job we've been doing for years now. We get the job done. We're not amateurs and we're all fully licensed by bot Interpol and our own local jurisdictions. Our injury rate is about half of yours and our collar rate is slightly higher than the JLA's. I'm not saying we're perfect or that we don't have problems, but we're good. We are."

"The decision we're debating is whether o not to eliminate the sidekicks." Clark wanted to see Robin's reaction.

"I know that and you can't." There was a buzz around the table, half surprise and half indignation. Who was he to tell the JLA what they could or couldn't do? "Maybe a couple of years ago you could have, but not now. We're too established and we have too many cities and people counting on us. And, aside from all that, at some point you guys are going to be looking at retirement; who's going to take over if not us?"

Diana glared at him. "It's not hard to see where you get your thinking."

Robin didn't care who she was; she could be a total bitch when the mood struck her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you have the same typical inflated male ego of your guardian. But be that as it may, the fact remains that you failed to notice that one of your team members, a boy you consider a close friend, was a drug addict until he was close to killing himself."

"You're right, I did and I have to live with that." Dinah leaned back in her chair, satisfied she'd made her point but Robin wasn't finished. "I also can live with the fact that when I did realize what was going on I dealt with it immediately and did what I believe is exactly what Roy needed. He's clean and people are watching to help him stay that way. I think he's going to beat this and if he does backslide, then we'll make sure he gets help as many times as he needs it."

Clark looked around the table. "Are there any other comments or questions?"

"Yes, we're not going to stop what we're doing. I mean you can disavow us and all of that, but the Titans, as a group and as individuals, are too established for you to just shut us down. I'm not trying to sound arrogant, but you all know this as well as I do. Inside of a year, none of us will be minors any more and that's just a fact."

"Excuse me?" The Bat had heard enough.

"Look, Bruce, I'm sorry but everyone's pinning this on the Titans and—Christ—you're all pretending to ignore that Roy lives with Ollie and _he's_ Roy's guardian. I mean, c'mon." Robin's cell phone rang, he glanced at the message window and half shrugged an apology, "Gotta go."

A long minute went by in silence. "He's right."

"Yes, J'onn, he is."

"And where is Ollie?"

No one seemed to know. The JLA voted to retain their support both of the Teen Titans and the sidekicks by a unanimous vote.

* * *

Roy was sitting on his bed in the apartment when Ollie knocked on his door.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Where were you today? Rob said you were MIA."

Ollie stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Busy." He shifted his weight. "I heard the vote went for you kids a hundred percent."

"Yeah, I heard. Robbie's pretty persuasive when he wants to be." He went back to his book.

"You're really okay?"

"Yes, I'm really okay. I'm fine, Ollie. You don't have to watch me, I'm not going out to find some dope—I think I've kicked it."

"You _think_?"

Roy closed his book; "You want an argument? Yes, I _think_ I'm going to be okay. I'm clean and I plan to stay that way. I intend to be one of the five percent who beat it. Are you going to believe me or should I expect surveillance cameras?"

"Lose the attitude, I'm not the one shooting up."

"Neither am I. 'You want me to leave, I will, but I'm not going to go through this ten times a day."

Ollie deflated a bit. "No, I don't want you to leave but I would like to know why you did it."

Roy took Ollie's measure. "The real answer?"

A nod.

He paused, gathering his thoughts and put the book on the blanket beside his leg. "I don't really have a good answer because I know it will sound like an excuse or like I'm whining and I don't want to do that. I think the truth is that I wanted you to notice me. When you didn't, when you spent all your time with Dinah and working busts and with the JLA, I filled the hole."

Ollie actually blinked at him, trying to understand, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

Ollie shook his head in annoyance bordering on disgust. "You sound to me like a damn whining ten year old complaining because you didn't get some toy you wanted. 'You're just making excuses—trying to pin your own bullshit on me and I'm not buyin' it. _You_ decided to use, _you_ stuck the damn needle in your arm and _you_ have to deal with it." He slammed out of the room, Roy listening to him open the hall closet and grab a coat before he reappeared in the doorway. "You may have snowed your friends about this but you haven't conned me—you made your decisions and you can damn well own them." Roy continued to sit on the edge of the bed as he heard the front door open and slam shut.

Fine.

Because Roy was, at heart, honest he admitted hadn't started using entirely because of Ollie, partly but not completely. In fact he blamed himself for not having the strength to find something else to fill what Ollie either couldn't or wouldn't for him.

He'd started using on his own and, with Dick's help, he'd kicked on his own, as well.

His problem; he'd deal with it.

And he would deal with it. Or, he'd do his damnedest, anyway.

6/18/08

10


End file.
